Deranged To Divine
by Gevar
Summary: He'd expect the Supreme to be older, much, much older. From warlocks' mouths and hushed condescending tones, he'd half-expected a spiteful crone draped in ill-fittingly tacky demure pantsuits and greying hair pulled into a severe bun.
1. No Rest for the Worst of Man

She's pretty, he supposes. Like a Grecian statue or sorts. Alabaster skin contrasts against an artwork of belladonnas artistically sewn onto form-clutching black Florentine dress. Marigold hair, long and lustrous, that spills on her shoulders with the curling ends of a tidal wave. Flashes of silk-affectionate warmth and steely claws in those cognac-hued eyes.

No. Not a classical sculpture. Nothing like that.

Michael sees Cordelia in the colours of Southern belle's golden charm, cigarette-coarse sweetness and whiskey-stained white teeth. Oh, yes. She's beautiful, in the same vein Michael likes pristinely snow-white lily marked with freshly crimson liquid leaking from a dwindling pulsing heart.

He'd expect the Supreme to be older, much, _much_ older. From warlocks' mouths and hushed condescending tones, he'd half-expected a spiteful crone draped in ill-fittingly tacky demure pantsuits and greying hair pulled into a severe bun.

Yet, there is no mistaking who is the supreme. Not that the older woman with her wildfire hair and oversized feline glasses. Certainly not the caramel-eyed girl with the comically puritan-inspired wardrobe. Those two falls back into the Victorian landscape of hazy-lit music room like pesky background noises.

Michael's dark tendrils probe for the magic contain within the Supreme. Why yes, she is the only one whose powers could— _perhaps_ —match his. Not surpass him. Still, she's an _alluring_ threat. A fascinating and _potent_ risk, nonetheless.

The one, whom all witches and warlocks dare not to raise their voices. Much less, wears the cloak of self-assured defiance. She who governs her witching peers in messianic absolution. A strong woman. Rare.

Colour Michael _enthralled_. He's hungrily delightful for the next round of this witch-and-warlock game. The anticipation fills him with a renewed vigour for the hunt. Now that his pathway to lay destruction and waste on earth is an excursion fuelled by a morbid fascination of Cordelia Goode, snatching the coveted Supreme title ceases to be a chore.

There is no ancient weathered tome, with fraying pages and cracked spines, or fragile salt-tinted scrolls that explicitly spill the directions Michael craved for. Who's to say, the Supreme cannot provide a purpose to his anti-Christ rise?

Cordelia Goode. That's a name Michael Langdon twistingly carves deeply into his skin and flesh, until the blood no longer bleeds and the smooth skin heals improper, leaving a trail of crude scars on his thighs.


	2. Only Got Eyes For Her

Michael Langdon cares for humans with the same tending a lioness has over a leopard's cub. Objects and means to an end. In the sacred temple of his perpetual neurotic mind, he holds reverence for only three humans. _Two_ humans, he corrects himself. The final human precariously hovers the thin line between a human and light magic.

* * *

Constance Langdon lurks in the nooks of his earliest memories. That fame Virginian beauty slipping through the cracks, with gentle smile that hardly reaches her coldly cunning russet eyes and a magnetism that hooks itself to his impressionable boy-self. Grandma's a fierce woman with a heart fashioned for loving monsters.

But Michael is no ordinary monster—her bourbon glazed eyes and hoarse voice raw from so much cigarette and crying, spells it out for him. Enough. _This is the end_ , is something she doesn't need to voice. Michael could hear it echoingly loud and crystalline clear in the frantic scrubbing of acrid dried garnet-red from his boyish hands.

She's a woman whose iron will cannot be caged or snatched. She died on her own terms. Michael weeps, and howls, and bawls; grandma's body lies stiff, decaying heavy under his skinny cradling arms. Somehow all his grief isn't suffice for a too-late apology of his misdeeds.

* * *

Miriam Mead is a stereotype and an anomaly rolled into a small woman, with lips painted in the colour of raven's wings, eyebrows drawn in thick bleak ink and equally dark hair cut into an impish pixie.

A childless mother fitted with hands to snap a life with a slight twist of her muscles. The very same hands crafted a nourishing meal with sturdy devotion. Her eyes, beady and blue, are full of adoration.

She provides him an imperfect outline of his destiny, yellow highlighters boldly overlapping over the words; 'abnormal murder', 'warlocks' and 'witches'. Nudges him into the direction of the Coven. It is Miriam who leads him to the one and _only_ Supreme.

Cordelia Goode is the epitome of slender elegance and steadfast loyalty to witch-younglings. Rather admirable traits on flawed pathetic humans. On a further inspection, she eclipses the beauty of his first human. Viscerally radiating the power of a coven, every inch of her. Prominent cheekbones included.

Michael's a demonic moth unable to stray away, his wintry blue eyes refuses to release a hold of her. Unblinking. Observing. Admiring. Even if he's in the presence of other warlocks and her witches. He's transfixed by her. Michael can't put a finger why she remains the tallest figure standing in his vision. A tantalising puzzle. One that he needs time to ponder.


	3. We Are What We Give

He's somewhat _touched_ by her misplaced concern. Her desire to protect him from the unfortunate fate befallen on her student, one Misty Day. Ha, such puny name. Yet, he questions her sincerity. Does she sees him a _child_? A warlock _brethren_? Or another _threat_?

Michael has various titles tacked to his name. The prophesised Anti-Christ. An abomination that sent a hardened 'mother of monsters' to an early grave. The Alpha who will shatter the long-determined status quo in the magical community. Neither of these people stop and ask him what does or who he wishes to be. Not even Miriam. What is Michael Langdon to Cordelia Goode?

* * *

He stirs in his bed, restlessness encase his body like scratchy woollen blanket. The witches' private spat with the warlocks replays in his mind and ears, like a faulty faucet leaks water droplets on dirty silverware.

Comparison is inevitable, as he dissects the dichotomy of the two women worthy of him. Miriam isn't any different than that witch. Motherly to their respective wards. Cordelia and her girls. Miriam and Michael. They share similar confidence to wear their eyebrows drenched in generous dark colouring. Well, Michael may have stretch that fact a little.

They are so alike. Both women ensnare a piece of Michael Langdon. One has his heart in her encouraging hands; the other has her powerful talons hooked into every fibre of his being, mind and soul—if _he_ has one.

The truth of the matter is he's half-right.

Miriam and Cordelia are also two opposite sides of a coin, Michael thinks. One is purely human. The other a formidable witch. The witch lacks faith of his abilities. The human is a constant reminder Michael isn't all monster, with a destiny to be greater.

* * *

He's not like those pitiful warlocks. His power is far superior, surpasses theirs by a million miles, as he's the apex predator and them his prey. The Seven Wonders is a child's play. He knows he will breeze through the test, like a swan gliding across a calm lake. It's just he's confounded by the Supreme's refusal. Is Cordelia Goode afraid of him? Or she exuded genuine worry over him, as if he's part of hers?

The grapevines whisper of her beloved witches trapped, far beyond her grasps. This is his chance. To be the one who reunites the Supreme with her witches. The thought of Cordelia, pale-faced and elated fills Michael with prickling heat coiling his spine and his heart—thundering against his ribcage, beating the footsteps of a thousand wildebeests.

He slips out from Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men. Ghost-like and scurrying feet. Wastes not a drop of seconds, he transmutes himself to an enigmatic Californian hotel. He plucks the witches—blonde-haired with a thirst for a quick sexual tryst, and the eternally suffering mathematics prodigy playing solitaire—from hell. Returns them back to the school.

Satisfaction lines his curling lips. A provoking grin, victory-coloured, aimed at Cordelia. His chest, puffs with airy pride, at the horror settling on the other witches' faces. He is not a parlour magician, submissive of her dismissal of him. This is proof. Michael Langdon is worthy of _her_ caution and veneration.

Cordelia cannot hide the sheer astonishment dancing in her eyes. Yes, Michael _sees_ her. Or how her breath freezes, and a gasp escapes from her throat. Disbelief, replaces the shock, etched on her beautiful face—before she slacks, crumpling to the ground like autumnal leaves.

The Supreme faints. Sudden and silent. It's an outcome Michael did not account for. He takes a snapshot of this moment anyhow. Imprints it into his mind. Tonight, Michael Langdon will play that Kodiak moment, in an endless loop. Savours his triumph over the subtle and private war Michael engages with Cordelia.

Yet, there's a lump thickening around his throat. His smirk shrinks a little. Losses that cutting edge. Michael contemplates, brief and then forgotten, if his stunt caused too much distress on the Supreme. He perishes the thought. The Supreme is not weak—she can handle whatever he throws at her.

* * *

His success in the Seven Wonders is a foregone conclusion. The warlocks object, vehement and translucent outrage becomes opaque at their raised voices. Cordelia's extra request is a mockery of the Seven Wonders, the Grand Chancellor implies. Michael should not be forced into deviating from the original test.

Forgetful of the fact that it was _them_ , who pushed Michael into their fantastical belief—one where Michael is the Alpha and their warlock-messiah, so eager to have him participating the Seven Wonders in the first place. That's not the point.

How could they _disrespect_ her authority? It is almost blasphemous to refuse the Supreme. Michael rather have this test performed to the liking of Cordelia. He can play with—abide by—her rules. It's her rules that hold precedence over the warlocks. Why incite unnecessary ire from her?

But the warlocks have other says. So they argue, and again Michael is left out of the consultation. Michael wholehearted accepts the terms. He truly does. His back is rod-like, firm with his wishes and he doesn't give the warlocks a chance to prolong their objections. The door parts open, he chimes in harmless and tooth-baring friendliness, "It's okay, I'll get your friend back." He's lying flat on his back, staring up at the witches and warlocks. Goliaths, all of them from his vantage point. And so utterly oblivious to the Satan's spawn at their feet. But not her. The way her eyes study him, as if he's a petri dish and she's the scientist.

His body shivers underneath her scrutinising gaze. Wonderful. He chants, recites with ease, and baritone voice deepening, and he slips into a trance, "Deduce me in tenebris vita ad ectremum, ut salutaret inferi."

Hell isn't entirely moulded out of brimstone ashes and flame-consuming punishments. Dante's Inferno is mostly the product of a mind clouded by hallucinogenic mushrooms. Hell is sterile as they come, wholly unimaginative at its design. But efficiency lies in the sadistic streaks of tedium-addled demons and unrepented sinners.

Michael descends into hell one last time. His footsteps on sleek, stone-obsidian marbled floor, is calculated and relax. The walls croon, in a language of serrated vowels and macabre consonants, of his destination. A couple of doors down. His mind's faraway, up in the mortal realm, drawing the image of soft curves, dandelion curls and the end of her full, large lips splitting into a debit of gratification.

It's the hair he notices first. Frizzy, and lemony blonde. Her skin's next, so ashen pale that reminds Michael of grandma's porcelain china plates. Almost as if he's staring into a distorted mirror image of himself on a female form. Their eyes are wholly unlike. Her eyes are innocently oceanic blue, child-like in everything she sees. Michael supposes, it fits in a sense—a grown ass woman stuck in an elementary laboratory and her 'peers' are children.

Michael musters his strength from the dwelling darkness coating the netherworld. Speaks in the mother-tongue of demons and spirits. He severs the binds that caged Misty to her personal hell. Then leads her back to her fellow living witches. He opens his eyes. The candlelight flares in his vision, searing a sharp ache into his eye sockets. He breathes deep, feels his strength returning. In time to see Cordelia demands him of the girl he'd sent to retrieve. Misty Day rematerializes beside him.

She drops to her knees, careless and immediate, and curves her arms around Misty, tender and yearning—and tears spilling from those deep tawny eyes.

So Misty Day is her _favourite_ student—Michael isn't blind. His mouth is unbearably dry, repeated swallowing of his saliva only burns his throat in red envy. His jaw sore, from clenching his teeth so hard, he could have crush iron. His nails dig into his palm, breaking skin and drawing blood.

"I did everything you asked. I descended into hell and I did what you couldn't," he hisses, tamping the irritation bubbling. In the pits of his stomach, indignation pours into his muscles, twisting angry knots. He spares Misty a disdain-laced gaze, turns his eyes back on her and reminds Cordelia of their agreed terms, "I brought _her_ back. I _passed_ the Seven Wonders."

He challenges, "Unless you want to add another one?"

"No," Cordelia intones, magnificently authoritative, "No. There can be no doubt. You are the next Supreme—" Her voice trails off, she faints.

His smirk widens. Michael can't be bothered to feel some semblance of guilt now.


	4. Something To Hold On To

It's pathetically hilarious that she thinks she has robbed him of his allies. Oh how naïve of the Supreme. Michael Langdon is far from a cowering animal, trapped in a prison of scorched ashes and sawdust bones. He is the Anti-Christ. He will rise, like a phoenix of putrid black flames for wings and vulture-like beak.

If there is a part of humanity he likes to preserve, it would human ingenuity. Without them, Miriam Mead, once dead and soul sealed and hidden from him, is alive and well. His beloved Miriam is by his side, hewed with man-made false skin and metallic frame for skeleton. This Miriam is his, eternal as she lacks all the fragility of her human shell.

Michael is a man of his words. He promises utter annihilation for _her_ girls. Has dreams of bearing witness to the look in her mahogany eyes, as he wipes her treasured souls into oblivion. It will be a _saccharine_ victory indeed.

* * *

His nights were restless blurs, as the skin on his thighs flares and itches with viscous anticipation. He can't wait to see their faces. Hers, particularly. Always hers. He likes how fear twists her impeccable features into a work of art, dark circles underneath her eyes and the doubt settling on her shoulders. What he would give to be the trigger of her beautiful tears, and kiss, lick, wipe them away with his finger. His soul. The entirety of Michael Langdon, perhaps.

Hawthorne is not without its uses. Aside from its weak leadership, it is the best place to scourge for clothes. His fellow dead warlocks are young men with a taste for designer goods. So, Michael slips into his best clothes, all black in the tradition of warlocks and witches—only the best for her. It's a fine day to bring a fiery end to her reign anyway.

A nomadic Voodoo Queen without worshippers, cast adrift into the picket fences of the white rich elite, is easily enticed. Much easier if her heart attaches itself to favourable odds. Thirteen episodes of a talk show greenlighted is the price for the slit throats of innocent witch-younglings. How _appalling_. Such is the worth of her girls' lives. He wonders if he should hide it. Or gloat. Gloating is expected to him. He is a monster. And gloat is what he will do.

His arrival is timely, prior the completion of protection spells by those witches around the academy. Any later, Dinah Stevens might sold her soul for a popular podcast show instead. He finds Queenie and Zoe Benson among the coven's younger witches, and an older British woman Michael seen in old horror films, her name rather ridiculous—Michael hopes Bubbles McGee is just a stage name.

"Clearly that mantra's _bullshit_ ," he interjects, and a smirk slithers on his face, "Oh, come on, you can't be that surprised to see me."

"Fuck no, you were prophesised, darling," Bubbles McGee retorts, lifts her wine glass up, "Up yours."

"I told Cordelia what I was gonna do to all of you. I have deaths to avenge."

They don't stand a chance. They never had. The Supreme, they're not. Their efforts are commendable, Cordelia _taught_ her girls well. It is ultimately laughable. Futile. Michael destroys them with a single flick of his wrist, a hailstorm of nails and glass shards impaling the younger witches and the actress. Dependable Miriam offers extra assurance, gunning the girls. Each and every last one of them.

He extends his dark tendrils, scrying for Cordelia Goode. Her essence, tastes a mixture of petrichor soil underneath green fingertips, a thorny rose at its blooming peak and the ardour of a matriarchal elephant. She is . . . _nearby_.

Michael trails the essence, like a cadaver hound, to a room on the second floor. This is it. He waves a hand, the door flings open—revealing no one. _Empty_. She's gone. Where the fucking hell can she be? She cannot be far.

"Search the mansion for Cordelia now," Michael screams, eyes the room in rattling fluorescent infuriation, "Kill anyone you see." He pivots on his heels, cape swirling in an arch, and the room once immaculately neat, left in ruins like the aftermath of a hurricane. Bookshelves ripped from walls, splintered against the floor. Torn pages laid scattered over. Shattered crystal vases resembled glass sands.

He searches the mansion, sniffing her essence like a rabid dog possessed by murderous instinct. High and low. He can feel her. Her immense magic. Her scent, irresistibly nectarine and mildly dew, is present. They're everywhere.

Faint traces of her essence is fast fading as the seconds tick. No. No. _No_. This is not how it's supposed to be. He's supposed to bath in her blood. Her cowardice is unbecoming of the Supreme. Blood. He could smell blood. It's overwhelming in the greenhouse. He senses it among the gardening tools. Cordelia's blood on a pair of shears. How quaint.

Michael fingers the shear, sees flashes of a younger Cordelia. Her eyes are mismatched, blue and brown. Those eyes. They're not hers. Not the ones she's born with. A gift from Myrtle Snow.

Only Cordelia would destroy her new eyes, in favour of regaining her Sight. Even before she's the Supreme. What a character. A grin slashes his lips at this glimpse of her past. She is worth all the pain, restive nights and misery. He pockets the shears, a souvenir of sorts.

"They're not here," Miriam informs, devoid of emotions and too robotic. Smells of gasoline, coagulating blood and milk.

" _Burn_ this goddamn place down to the ground."

* * *

His rage subsides much later, as Miss Mead drives down the familiar route to the robotics company. Relief drains the clouds fogging his wits and emotions. The burning desire to melt the shears, a placeholder for the Supreme, isn't at the forefront of his mind.

The nocturnal breeze nibbles his face, drawing heat away, in little bites. The stars sparkle like diamonds on a black canvass. Much like the many nights he spent in the forest. Hallucinations aside, he had peace. Michael likes to think it is peace. Or whatever peace that is afford to the much lauded Anti-Christ. His own strange peace given by a world that's destined to be destroyed by his hands.

He's not pulled into many directions. The Alpha. The Anti-Christ. He is Michael. Just Michael. Michael without his Devil Mama. Michael without the warlocks. He is alone. And lost. But he's at peace.

Cordelia Goode and her remaining witches fled the academy. Hiding in seclusion. Nonetheless, the Supreme is alive, but waning. There's a tiny part of Michael sincerely wishes she'll survive the apocalypse he is to wreak, like a cockroach. Safe. Alive for him.

He spares Miss Mead a scrutinising gaze. Miriam Mead is a traditionalist, believer of the magics within witches and warlocks as the tools of bringing Armageddon. Her suggestion to meet those absurd scientists—the ones that never respect him—is slight out of character. He can't quite discern what's bothering him of Miss Mead. The shift in their relationship isn't seismic, but it exists in rumbling limbo. But she has a point. His avenues aren't realistic, if he's scheduled to end the world by 2020.

He cranks the music up. Leaning against the leather seat, he stares out at the skies. Wherever Cordelia is, she would be looking up at the same skies as he is. She won't let him win. She'll return to him anyway. Until that time comes to pass, he sets his sight on other _attainable_ goals.

Michael Langdon traces a delicate finger over his pants, outlining the scars that spelt her name, like a lover caressing his beloved's cheek. Over and over again.


	5. I Don't Know How To Love You, Darling

She's here. She's here. _She's here_. That essence. Oh, that glorious mesmeric essence. He catches a hint of damp Louisiana mud, mangled by scorched leaves and winter radiation, blooming witch hazel in sweet scarlet and snapping yellow, ferocious determination and love wrought in a whale's gargantuan frame.

She is every bit beautiful, if not more, than the last time his eyes feast on her. No amount of infinite circlet of daydreaming does her justice. Her canary hair has not lost its shine, her skin flawlessly unblemished, her full lips smeared in his favourite colour sangria and those dark circles underneath her eyes are hauntingly riveting. Her visage is perfection itself, than the ones in his dreams.

Oh, yes. The Supreme, _at last_. He has never forgotten her. Not once. The gardening shear he pocketed from the academy, is all bent and dull over his thumb's constant skimming across its blades. His rings cuffed at the bottom, where iron surface meets shiny golden bands.

Quite frankly, edging humanity—what's left of it—to the irreversible insanity has morphed into a dreary routine. Challenging, it is not. Wilhelmina Venable is the closest he had to replicate the high he thrives from slaughtering egos, reducing them to pathetic little creatures that will sink deeper into grave holes of depression. Mallory is a Rubik's cube Michael will solve—and loses interest in a blink of an eye.

They are poor replacements for her. The lot of them. But she's here. She has return to him. Cordelia Goode. As always, the room is hers to command. Before this, he slogs through the days, ticking off his errands in a repetitive list, in a lazy haze. Not today. He makes his way to the foyer, Miss Mead falls in step with him. A part of him, Michael Langdon the Anti-Christ, desires nothing more than to quicken his pace. Long legs darting impatient steps. Michael Langdon, the Cooperative agent, insists on a slower, dignified gait. One that rationalises Michael should stretch out this experience. He is in control. Not the witches.

"How can any of you defeat me when I've already won?"

It bothers him not that there are more witches. Not when their ranks are composed of Coco, Madison, Mallory and Dinah. Their lives are destined to emulate mayflies, temporary and short. Cordelia is an exception.

He'll save her for last, as one wont to do. Oh how he will make her watch as Michael makes a feast out of their hearts, and two glasses of red wine to wash down the aftertaste. Later, when all Cordelia has for company is him, and him alone, Michael wants to tear her layers one by one, and sniffs her fears, and coaxes her desires out from her. He doesn't mind the possibility of Cordelia's fingernails scrapping against his face, his blood trickling onto the floor. He welcomes the thought of her hands leaving bruises on his skin. All those cuts and scrapes tattooing his body, like a figurine of declaration.

"I could annihilate all of you in a second and the world would go on without missing a beat. You and all of your work will be forgotten in the rubble of the past," Michael warns, benign and merciful lacing his tone.

"But I want to give you," he says, eyes burning into Cordelia, "a future." And he adds, "Fall to your knees and accept me as your lord and saviour, and I will bring you to the table as my obedient subjects."

* * *

They say, your life flashes before your eyes when death's weighting heavily to either grab your hand or leave you in half-aware agony. Michael sees none. Except a cigarette clipped in between two manicured fingers, whiskey glass in one hand. The other is a bowl of cereal, eaten in an altar dedicated to his Father. Nothing else.

And confessions before death cleanses the soul, or so they say. Cathartic, maybe. He doesn't think he needs to confess. He had done nothing wrong—he did as he was told, as he was preordained by his birth right. But, but—could he pick another pathway? Adam Young didn't destroy the world, he's the Anti-Christ. Then again, this world isn't ink and paper written by Terry Prachett and Neil Gaiman. This is so real. Not some kind of fictional novel.

And if he was to be on his knees, in confessional vulnerability, alone without his Father listening, no satanic priest to tend him, Michael's tongue is charitably forthcoming with an ugly secret. Perhaps, one woman is triumphant in wrestling more of Michael from his own control.

It's rather odd to be so introspective, self-reflective at this time. Especially after getting gunned down by his own helper's robotic arm. He could feel his wounds healing, pool of blood seeping into his body. No confessions from Michael Langdon today. Time to kill off the witches. He raises an arm—Madison Montgomery's head burst open.

* * *

"Satan has one son, but my sisters are legion, motherfucker," are her last words, as Cordelia Goode plunges the knife into her heart, twisting it and throws herself off from the second floor.

Why is it, the women with golden hair and ardent brown eyes tend to pick death over him? What is so enticing about death than the endless possibility Michael could offer them? He has more to offer too. He's human. His unwavering love and absolute devotion. The chance to remake the world in their images. Cherubic little children with flaxen soft curls concealing the warmest brown eyes or the bluest piercing eyes. She could be their—his—mother. Or the Eve to Michael's Adam.

His body is reactionary to the ugly crunch of bones reverberating in the room, scurries to the edge of floor. The word 'No' leaves his mouth, as an inhuman roar. No. No. _NO_. He doesn't want Mallory. Doesn't want the _New_ Supreme. There is only one Supreme for him. And her name is Cordelia Goode.

Even in death, she is perfect. Her hair fans out like a halo. Her eyes, lifeless and rustic, gazing at him. Hot tears burn his cheeks, twists his guts into snarled clusters of despair and disbelief. Didn't Michael Langdon lose his ability to cry when the world ended? Why is he mourning for the woman he sought to destroy? He shed his tears for grandma, Miss Mead and himself. The women he loved. Why Cordelia Goode is the last woman to wrench tears from him?

His ears catch the faint sounds of horrible Latin pronunciation. Mallory. The witches' ultimate plan is her. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, hears Myrtle screaming for Cordelia. There was a time, long time ago. A time where he is Michael before his banquet of hearts. That Michael Langdon—before he's being lauded to be the Anti-Christ—utterly hopes Mallory fixes this mess.

 _Forgive me, Father for I have sinned_ , Michael confesses, to no one in particular. He wants a world with Cordelia in it. Makes no attempt to stop her. Mallory lives.


	6. The Things I'll Never Know

He sees orange flames engulfing Ariel, Baldwin and Miriam. Smells charred flesh, ashes and gasoline. Hears ear-splintering screams. His fingers brush against the rough, peeling skin. Michael feels the burnt flesh crumbles beneath his fingertips. Wha—at happened? Who _did_ this? His body trembles, unbearably stiff as though a python had wrapped him in a cage of strained muscles. His chest constricts, every scrap of air flees his lungs. A despairing howl ripples through the air, bursting from his throat, lacerates his vocal cords.

"It's over. We know who you are. Your allies are all dead. You failed."

He knows that voice. Could recognise it, from the first breath alone. Cordelia. That tone, so excruciatingly smug, bolstered by premature victory. Sophistication tinting her melodic voice—has him ensnared, as if he's a fly stuck to the elaborate threads of a spider's web—coating her words like honey.

"I've already proved to you that I can defy death. I'm just gonna bring her back. And when I do, my Miss Mead will stand by me as we watch you die," he retorts, keeping his ramshackle bravado from ebbing the harsh contours of his face. He cannot be weak. Not now. He hasn't lost yet. Miriam Mead could still be recovered. Hell's his playground, remember?

She presses her lips into a thin, knowing smile. The black parasol shields her from the sun's unforgiving heat. Even if she's clad in all black, her beauty is undeniable. Underneath the wide-brim of her hat, her long and daffodil hair falls on her shoulders. Her dress lacks her usual floral patterns, only sleek and business-like. She is impeccably stunning, like a painting by the masterful and delicate hands of Evelyn De Morgan, imbued with real breath.

"You can certainly go to Hell, but you won't find her there."

The words slip from his mouth carelessly, long before Michael could swallow the mortification and trodden desolation is carved into his face as if he's made of Grecian marble and limestone, "What have you done?"

"Her soul is hidden by a spell only I can break. You'll never see her again. You're alone."

His voice cracks, in that painful realisation he knows he sounds like a child lacking conviction in his words, "I'm never alone. I have my Father."

He's a basket case of mixed emotions, all wanting to shred him apart. His legs buckle, with the weight and gravity of reality quelling against his entire being. He's on his knees, unable to block the buzzing white noise ringing in his ears.

"Where is he now? Why did he let this happen?" Cordelia questions, sympathy intertwines callous mockery. She stoops, to match his eye level. She's so close. He could smell her scent; ambrosial and invigorating as fresh water from mountainous spring.

"You don't have to follow this path your father laid out for you. You can write your own destiny. You can still turn away."

He wants her to hurt, the way she hurt him. Cordelia took his heart, stitched haphazardly together by Miriam and her unabashed acceptance of him, away from Michael. Sealed Miriam away from all the power his Satanic father endowed him with. He is hollow of love, filled to the brim with poisonous hatred burning, flowing through his vein.

"There's humanity in you," Cordelia says, her punitive tone softens, lips curving to beautiful smile, straightens to her full height, "I see it. If you come with me, maybe we can find it. Together," and she extends her outstretched hand.

She's the first. She's the only one. She still sees him as human, even after she knows he's the Anti-Christ. And that smile, full of relief and absurdly warm—invites him, without malice, without reservation of his misdeeds. For a flickering second, there's a desperation within him clawing at the back of his mind, to _take_ her goddamn hand. Let this woman be his guiding light. He was—is human. Perhaps, there is more to discover beyond his birth-right. Perchance, there is truth to her words.

People wax poetic about the Anti-Christ's true purpose, only focuses on his invisible Father. As though he is just another tool in Satan's arsenal of weapons against God—it's his Father those Satanists worshipped. Not him. Michael is _human_ too. He still bleeds when prickled. He is not devoid of emotions, ruthlessness is cultivated, not inherently born.

But, but, but she's too late. She should have visited the house earlier. After grandma left. After he dug a shallow hole of a grave for her. After he clumsily planted a rose shrub as a gravestone. The ghosts all have disappeared—his family, his playmates. He was so alone. Miriam came, fills the void in his heart with her love, her worship. He's too in debt to Miriam Mead. Has white teeth stained with blood and a belly full of torn hearts.

Why can't Cordelia be the one to appear at the door? Why does it have to be those three Satanists? Perhaps had she did, maybe he could still be salvaged. He's in debt to Miriam Mead. He's all tied up and bounded too tightly to the destiny Miriam has engrained within him. It's too late. Cordelia cannot save him. No one can. He is—was human.

He could hear Miriam's disappointment echoing, her disapproval of his waning enthusiasm for revenge. How could he be so certain Cordelia won't leave him the way Constance did? No. The right— _only_ —path is revenge. And yet. For a glimmer of fleeting moment, his resolve wavers underneath benevolently hopeful mahogany gaze and her garden-rough hand (it feels far different than he expected, unlike Miriam's hands made callous by killings and murders). He wants to trail his fingers all over the lines in her palm, wants to adore, intertwine her long slender, manicured fingers with his—it's unexpectedly intoxicating, as his own skin touches hers. It's the first. Of many, Michael's sure of it. He is a malicious monster. There is no monster like him in her life. His sins eclipse those of her witch-wards.

He arches an arm around her waist, yanks her closer to him. So close, he could feel her heart pounding against his chest. His head spins, a mind of stringently coiled rationality spinning, fraying at breakneck speed. A seconds feels like an hour, his ribcage breaking under the strain of his ferociously pounding heart. He hates it. How proximity to the Supreme weakens him in ways Michael cannot comprehend. He forges on; setting the mask of gritted teeth, clenched jaw and narrowed blue eyes. Hate her. Hate her. _Must_ hate her.

Staring down at her, Michael hisses his vow of revenge, bares his white gleaming teeth. Michael snarls, "Somehow, some way, I'm gonna bring her back. And then, I'm gonna kill every last one of you."

He is the Anti-Christ. His Father's gift to humankind. He sunk his fangs into the heart of an innocent girl. His hands are forever tainted with the stench of rotting innocence. The dominoes have come crashing, fallen like a ton of bricks—his existence is a perpetual disaster. Each breath he takes, erodes his remorse and guilt at his crimes (so many crimes, bloody, savage, heinous), like hydrochloric acid on skin.

He'll save her for last. To afford the courtesy she failed to offer him. She'll bear witness to the death of her coven and the warlocks.

Either she ends him, or he ends her. There is no in between for Michael Langdon and Cordelia Goode.

* * *

He thinks, he's on his feet for days. He can't tell how long it's been. The sun still rises and sets, the skies will be dark eventually and the stars would recede with the orange-blue intensifies.

He walks, long legs ached with taut muscles. Anywhere is better than the pyre makes for Miss Mead's grave. His vision is a blur, as his pace continually increase its aimless wondering. His fingers grazing the stubbles littering his jaw. Dirt smeared all over his face, soil caked underneath his loafers. His clothes soaked with stale sweat, ripped at odd angles during those weeks in the woods.

There's a part of Michael berates himself, for being a fool. Miss Mead is gone. Forever afar from Michael's grip. He has no one. His Father refuses to speak to him. The warlocks will never accept him—now that they know he's the Anti-Christ. There is no knight in shiny gothic black and red armour for the destroyer of world.

His mind is a broken record, keeps playing Cordelia's words all over, the image of her hand and the memory of her offer. He finds himself entertains a whimsical game called 'what if'. Could he be ever hope to be the man Cordelia sees him as? Or will his compulsions get the best of him? Had he chosen the witches—the Supreme—is it enough to break him out from the mould of his fate? He wonders ever so much, the life he would have with her—will it be similar to a life with Constance Langdon or it amounts to nothing dissimilar to his life with Miriam Mead?

He is Michael Langdon, the Anti-Christ. She is Cordelia Goode, the Supreme. There's nothing to say. There are things, like different worlds, diverging lifetimes, alternate routes, Michael thinks he shouldn't—will never—know. Maybe that's the only way he could carry on. Without losing the remnants of his sanity.

He isn't sure where he is. Or what day it is. Michael catches the sign of an inverted cross, smacked in a nearly deserted alley. It's an omen. A good omen. His Father has spoken. He pushes the capricious imagination of a sleep-deprived, hunger-stricken and parched throat Michael Langdon out and enters.

He is Michael Langdon, the Anti-Christ and he knows he's supposed to bring Armageddon to the world, a refrain he forcefully reiterates to himself, a chant to amass and harvest his rage, to fuel the hatred festering within him. And sometimes when he remembers of his loss and defeat, he adds, Cordelia Goode is _his_ chosen adversary. And there could be no one else.


End file.
